


Whatever Will Be

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-03
Updated: 2006-07-02
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:43:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12068463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: AU - Brian and Justin never met under the street lamp that night, and life continued on as normal---until one night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes: My first fic... be gentle!  


* * *

He was supposed to be dead.  Gone.  But because of Mikey's meddling, he was stuck tucked in all safe and sound in some goddamn hospital room weeks after his expiry date.  

   


The days were starting to go by faster and faster, putting more and more space between him and his failure, and pushing him into overtime.  

   


He hated getting older.  

   


He was supposed to be dead.  It was should have been some kind of poetic ending, dead at thirty, but forever young and beautiful.  Instead...there was this.  Now his days were filled with white antiseptic nothingness, with nothing but the breeder nurses and hushed words spoken by the doctors in the hallway for company.  _Asphyxiation.  Suicide.  Coma.  Unstable._

   


Even Mikey's visits were coming further and further apart now.  

   


Brian flopped his head back onto the pillow behind him, and listened to the beep of the machines surrounding the bed beside his.  He wasn't supposed to be here.  He was Brian _Fucking_ Kinney for fuck's sake.  He was supposed to go out in a blaze of glory, not be strapped into some hospital bed like a lunatic.  They wouldn't even give him his own goddamned room.  

   


The beeping was driving him nuts.

   


Three weeks.  Three goddamn weeks he’d listened to the beeping that he’d come to associate his little roommate with.  The kid wasn’t going to wake up.  As far as he was concerned, the kid was lucky he was alive at all after having taken a baseball bat to the head.  The kid’s attacker, it seemed, had been off his mark when he let it swing.

   


Brian had been off his mark too.  The scarfing hadn’t ended quite as he’d planned.  But it didn’t matter so much.  He could always try again.  All he needed to do in the meantime was convince the doctors—and Mikey—that he was all healed up and that he wasn’t going to off himself so that he could go home. 

   


Hell, at this point he’d settle for a private room and a male nurse.  He hadn’t been celibate for this long since he was sixteen.

   


Brian looked over at his little roommate.  He couldn’t even tell if the kid was hot since they had him wrapped up like a mummy.  And if he had to listen to the kid’s mother whimper and cry one more time, he was going to lose hid hard-on for good.

   


“How are you tonight Mr. Kinney?”

   


Brian turned his head away from his roommate and towards the nurse hovering over him.  Betty was at least fifty pounds overweight, two-dozen years older than him, and liked to talk about her grandkids.  A lot.  

   


Brian had stopped speaking to her three days after he had woken up in the hospital.  He figured if he could get a better conversation out of coma-boy, it wasn’t worth it.  At least coma-boy supposedly had the right equipment.

   


“Fantastic,” he muttered as Betty injected something into his IV as she had every night for weeks, and as the blackness surrounded him Brian listened to the woman drone on about Charlie and his new toy truck and the beep of the heart monitor to his left, trying to decide which one irritated him more, and what it would take to make them go away.

   


He wasn’t supposed to be here.  He was supposed to be dead.

   
   
   


The drug Betty had taken to giving him usually let Brian get at least eight hours of solid sleep, which between the tricking and working like a dog at the agency was the most he’d slept in years.  So when he awoke three hours later, feeling like crap, it took a few moments for Brian to figure out why he’d been woken up.  

   


As doctors and nurses began rushing in and out of his room, it came to him through the drug-induced fog.

   


Coma-boy was awake.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes:

okay, if you hadn't noticed before now, i know little to nothing about the medical profession.  but let's pretend i do, because this is all in fun.  

thank you to everyone who reviewed.  sorry this next chapter took so long.  Lily.

* * *

Justin

 

He was supposed to be dead.  At least, that’s what the doctor’s had been telling him.  Well, they didn’t word it quite like that.  They’d been more polite, saying that if the baseball bat had hit him only an inch in any direction or at another angle, he’d be dead.  Yeah, that was comforting.  But that wasn’t nearly as bad as the fact that he’d been awake for four days and his father hadn’t come to see him once.  And then there was the fact that his entire goddamn right arm was useless.

 

Of course, then there was also the fact that he’d been nervously prattling on and on to his roommate about all these things and more that were wrong with his life for the past few days.  His roommate.  His insanely gorgeous, incredibly hot roommate who barely spoke a word and had taken to glaring at him instead of giving a polite response.  But that was okay.  It really didn’t matter.  Justin’s roommate had become his outlet for all the shit in his life that he couldn’t really deal with right now.  And he was gorgeous.

 

That was really the only plus side to his situation right now.  He was a gimp with a nervous mother and an absentee father and a classmate who obviously wanted him dead.  Fuck, they hadn’t even told him what had happened to Hobbs.  Was he in jail?  Was he out on the streets?  Was he eating breakfast in his kitchen with his parents patting their homophobe son on the back, congratulating him on a job well done?  If there was any justice in the world, Chris Hobbs would be sitting behind bars with a big hairy guy named Rocco who wanted to make him his bitch.  That would be almost poetic, turning the little fag-hater into a big bear’s bitch.  And he would deserve it, Justin decided, after he’d taken Justin’s art from him.  His future.  His dream.

 

“For someone who hasn’t shut up for the past three days, you’re awfully quiet over there.”

 

Justin blinked and turned towards his roommate.  “Sorry,” he said automatically, then realized what the other man had actually said and narrowed his eyes at him.  

 

Before Justin could say anything the other man muttered, “sorry’s bullshit kid.  And don’t look at me like that.  My comment was less about actually WANTING to hear you speak, and more about thinking you might have died mid-rant.”  Okay, so the roommate was a bit of an asshole.  Absolutely gorgeous, but an asshole, and with his luck, probably straight. 

 

“Fuck you,” Justin muttered, trying to cross his arms over his chest in an attempt to pout, but realizing that he has absolutely no control over his right one.  He looked like a moron, and he flopped back onto his pillows.  “Fuck.”

 

That’s when he heard his roommate laugh, and he almost swallowed his tongue listening to the sound.  Getting a crush on his straight hospital roommate was not the most intelligent thing he’d ever done, and considering how his year was going, that was saying something.  

 

“Not today, Coma Boy.  I like my tricks to be at least mostly mobile.”  Okay.  Maybe his roommate was not as straight as he’d originally thought.  But how the hell was he supposed to know?  This was the first time the man has strung more than four words together at a time when speaking to him.  He wasn’t exactly the best conversationalist.  And he was still being an asshole.  And hey!  What the fuck?

 

“Coma Boy?  Fuck you Roomie.”

 

“That’s a bit hostile, and again with the fucking thing.  Getting a little frustrated over there, Coma Boy?  You must be in hell.  Gimp arm must make it a little hard to jerk off.”

 

Justin glared at the older man, trying to ignore his toned body and beautiful face.  Getting a hard-on right now would only end badly, and all this talk about jerking off wasn’t helping.  “I’m ambidextrous, asshole.”  Then he looked down at his arm that hung unmoving at his side, and felt his stomach drop as he thought about his drawing.  “Well, with most things.”

 

That only made the other man smirk at him, but before he was given the chance to say anything, a plump middle-aged nurse bustled into the room, and whisked the man off to see the therapist.  Apparently Roomie had issues.  Justin glared at the now-vacated doorway after the man.  It served him right.

 

Then he tore his gaze away and looked down at his lap, where his erection was tenting the sheets that covered it.

 

“Fuck.”

   

Brian

 

Therapy was bullshit.  Therapists were full of shit, and this was just a waste of his time as far as Brian was concerned.  He was Brian fucking Kinney for fuck’s sake.  He did what he wanted when he wanted and with who he wanted.  It wasn’t a cry for help.  It wasn’t a call for attention.  It was just what he wanted.

 

He wanted to be done.  Gone.

 

He’d heard a saying when he was young.  Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse.  While he himself wasn’t going for anything quite so morbid and promising to necrophiliacs, he had aligned himself with that motto, after a fashion.  He wanted to be remembered as Brian Kinney, Stud of Liberty Avenue, not some washed up old geezer who couldn’t pick up a trick to save his own life.  

 

Somehow, that hadn’t gone over well with the therapist.  

But what he hell, he could get a better conversation out of Coma boy.  At least it was fun to get the kid riled up.  No matter what he said, he couldn’t get anything out of the therapist save for “And what do you think that means, Brain?” or “And how do you feel about that, Brian?”  It was getting really fucking irritating.

 

As he approached the door to his room—under the watchful eye of the floor nurses, who were like fucking pit-bulls, preventing him from escaping—he could hear the boy’s voice blathering on about something.  But his voice was loud.  And it was angry.

 

“What the fuck do you mean I can’t come home?!”


End file.
